Project #36

Way, way back in the day, this meant making it through Saturday Night Live. Slumber party antics would then ensue — the dope who fell asleep first, well, he got his hand put in warm water, maybe even lifted out into the backyard if he was a real deep sleeper. I can remember vividly tying a pair of shoes together, and then, in the dark, hurling them up in the air and across the room. “Owwwww,” someone would scream. The lights would come on, and the person who got hit would spend the next hour demanding to know who threw the shoes. Eventually, everyone would be blaming everyone else.

Next phase: someone’s parents would go out of town, and the drinking would last all night. You sneak out, you stay out.

In college, we’d regularly pull “all-nighters.” How I spent all those late night hours pouring over economic theory, I’ll never know.

Soon, Jack Kerouac enters the scene. You read On the Road, and the next thing you know, you’re drinking bad coffee and writing even worse poetry at a dive diner at 3 AM.

Think about it — All the shit that can go down in one night. The party of the century. The best talk ever. Sexual reckonings. A painting. A short story. A short film. Old friends, good scotch, and the conversations you never get tired of having. New friends, cheap drinks, and discussions about favorite movies. A long drive through the middle of nowhere, stopping to get a large coffee every time you see a gas station. Pounding grooves that keep your body swaying, going way past the point where your legs feel tired. Talking and talking and just talking with the girl/guy who’s going to change your life, for one night, for years, forever. The fight that finally ends it. You lay your cards on the table, over and over again. All this and more can happen in one night.